


Ravishing

by orphean



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Bondage, Choking, Consensual Non-Consent, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drugged Sex, Face Slapping, Kryptonite, M/M, Rape Roleplay, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, consensual drugged sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:20:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27918112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphean/pseuds/orphean
Summary: ‘Let me go.’They had talked about it. Bruce had known Clark would say this, just as Clark knew that Bruce would say:‘No. I caught you, so now you’re mine. And I can do’ – he tightened his grip around Clark’s jaw, the pressure unrelenting, his fingernails digging half-circles in Clark’s skin – ‘whatever I want with you.’–––Bruce and Clark play.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Comments: 10
Kudos: 102





	1. scene

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Please mind the tags. (If you think there are any missing tags, **please** let me know!) Both Clark and Bruce are very into this and they have discussed the scene ahead of time and they are both very onboard and, although it isn’t addressed explicitly in the fic, they do have safe words and both are being responsible, with the caveat that as this is fiction, I am glossing over certain things. I am also taking _great_ liberties with the effects of kryptonite, but so does canon. The first chapter is the scene itself, and the second is soft aftercare. Please enjoy!
> 
> Big big thank you, as always, to Xan for bouncing ideas, catching mistakes, and cheering me on.

The cave was quiet but for the susurration of bats chittering far above. Clark flexed his fingers, touching the cave wall behind him. His wrists were cuffed to the wall, a heavy chain anchoring his arms above his head. He felt the rough wall of the cave beneath his shirt, the gravelly concrete through his jeans. He didn’t see anything through the blindfold he was wearing, a beautiful black ribbon over his eyes, and he didn’t use his powers. He knew where everything was. He knew where on the walls the chains were anchored. He knew where the table was. On the table, he knew, there was a lead-lined box, usually kept under strict lock and key in the Batman’s deepest safe. If he stretched his hearing, if he allowed himself to hear beyond the walls of the cave, he would know where Bruce was, but he didn’t. He waited. He sat on the ground, letting the cold seep through his clothes, and waited for Bruce.

And there he was.

Clark could hear him coming down the stairs, his steps soft, the barest scuff of leather against the stone. Closer, ever closer, he moved. Clark could smell his cologne; a cologne that was nothing like the cologne he usually wore, but one that smelled like thunder and velvet, dark and dangerous. Closer, closer. Eyes closed under the blindfold, he angled his face towards where Bruce stood, towards where he could hear his low, easy breath. Bruce’s presence was a lighthouse, a safety, even now. He kept his eyes closed when Bruce removed the blindfold, waiting to open them until Bruce had stepped away.

Bruce was in all black, from the glossy shoes to the fine leather gloves. He looked at Clark, and there was something wrong in the way he looked at him: clinical, dangerous, calculating. His face split into a leer, cold and hungry, and Clark felt afraid: a fear that sat in his stomach; a fear he could smell on his own skin. Bruce’s elegant fingers undid the clasps of the impenetrable box and the gloved hand flipped the lid.

The light, hazy and emerald, felt like pain and danger and loss of control. Without thinking about it, Clark found himself trying to get away, even though he knew there was nowhere to go. He could feel the scratch of the cave wall against his back, digging into his shoulder blades and under the beryl glow, cutting into skin. He tugged at the chains, but for all their noise, they didn’t yield.

Then– Bruce caught his jaw, finger and thumb holding him in place. He could feel the fingers pressing into his cheek, digging against his molars. Clark could feel the bruise that could blossom there, yellow and purple. The black around Bruce’s eyes made his eyes even bluer, his pupils blown and impenetrable.

‘Don’t fight. I don’t want to have to hurt you.’ His voice was soft, so at odds with the way he held Clark’s face, the way he towered over him, the way his eyes burned. ‘Will you be good for me?’

‘Let me go.’

They had talked about it. Bruce had known Clark would say this, just as Clark knew that Bruce would say:

‘No. I caught you, so now you’re mine. And I can do’ – he tightened his grip around Clark’s jaw, the pressure unrelenting, his fingernails digging half-circles in Clark’s skin – ‘whatever I want with you.’

Bruce smiled – wide and vapid – at the sound Clark made, the tiny protesting whimper. Bruce leaned closer, brushing over Clark’s cheek, nose, forehead, inhaling deep. Bruce’s teeth scraped along Clark’s eyebrow, down his temple, skating over his cheekbone. He bit down there, hard and sudden, and Clark jerked in pain. It was a hard, searing pain, and Clark could feel skin break. Bruce lapped his tongue over the bleeding bite before he leaned back and licked the blood off his mouth. Clark forgot to breathe. The kryptonite was starting to feel hotter, the light seeping into Clark’s skin, shifting the world out of focus.

‘Please don’t.’ Clark murmured the words, not quite sure what he was protesting, just knowing that he wanted to say no, and that he wanted Bruce to push on regardless.

The first slap hurt and the second burned; the third and fourth seared over Clark’s skin. Clark blinked back tears and tried to bite back a whimper. Bruce’s eyes shifted from hard to concerned, and when he pressed his face close to Clark’s, it was with affection, not a threat.

‘Is this okay? Too much?’

Maybe there was something wrong with Clark. Maybe something had broken inside him. Why else would he want this? Why would he want Bruce to take and take and make him hurt? But if it was wrong – why did the hurt feel so good? They’d talked about this, about boundaries and what they each would and would not do. Bruce was just being cautious. Clark wished he wouldn’t be. He wet his lips.

‘More.’

Bruce kissed him and then he bit down again, breaking skin, licking Clark’s blood into his mouth. Clark’s hair coiled in Bruce’s fingers, and Bruce yanked hard. Clark’s head hit the wall and he could see stars, green and luminous. He looked at Bruce, mouth and chin smeared with his blood. Bruce slammed Clark’s head against the wall again and Clark mewled, protesting, pleading.

‘Stop, please stop,’ Clark said. Bruce sneered.

Bruce wrapped his fingers around Clark’s throat.

‘If you’ve got nothing nice to say, then don’t say anything.’ Bruce purred, his fingers flexing, at first barely applying pressure.

Because he usually didn’t have to breathe, suddenly needing to and not being _able_ to was – novel, harrowing, intoxicating. Bruce squeezed hard, digging his fingertips into skin and pressing his palm against Clark’s throat. Clark gasped for breath and Bruce watched him, the tip of his tongue between his lips, the curl of a smile in the corner of his mouth. Clark tried to escape his grip but there was nowhere to go, Bruce’s hands holding him in place, the chains unyielding. He kicked his legs, uncoordinated and helpless. One of his feet hit Bruce’s thigh and Bruce swore and he slapped Clark again, again, again, his other hand still around his throat. Clark couldn’t breathe and his vision was getting blurry, his eyes unfocused and he needed air, he needed to breathe, he had to–

Bruce let him go. Clark breathed, greedy for air, coughing at the rawness of his throat, at how foreign oxygen felt to his lungs.

‘If you try to hurt me again,’ Bruce snarled, ‘You’ll regret it. Will you behave now?’

Clark nodded weakly, clearing his throat. It felt like Bruce had made him swallow barbed wire. Bruce made an approving noise and stood. He looked down on Clark, hands in his pockets. He kicked Clark’s knees, spreading his legs.

‘You say you don’t want this, but you do.’ Bruce lifted a foot, dragged his heel along the concrete and rested the tip of his shoe on Clark’s crotch. ‘Stop pretending you don’t.’

Bruce shifted his weight. It _hurt_ , a sudden crushing pain that seared from the pit of Clark’s stomach to the back of his head. He was hard, so hard already, and Bruce’s shoe pressed down and it was so much, it was _too much_ , and it was _so so good_. He could feel the wetness on his cheeks and he could hear himself babbling, but he couldn’t hear the words. Bruce eased the pressure – _thank you thank you thankyouthankyouthankyou_ – and then he applied his weight again, just a little, then a lot, again and again. It was torture and Clark couldn’t think, couldn’t feel, not about anything that wasn’t about Bruce’s beautiful shoe crushing down on him, that wasn’t the satisfied sneer on Bruce’s face, that wasn’t how much he wanted this.

When Bruce finally stepped away, Clark could breathe again, could draw rattling anxious breaths, could try to stop crying. Bruce watched Clark, impassive, and adjusted his gloves. He grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked Clark’s head up, forcing him to meet his eye. It was like Bruce was glowing.

‘I think it’s time to make you pretty, don’t you think?’

Clark shook his head, then nodded, not sure what the right answer was, wanting to give the wrong answer. Bruce just chuckled and kneeled before him, hand still in Clark’s hair. Holding him up, Bruce angled his face this way, then that, before he leaned down and dragged his tongue along Clark’s face, over the bruises, over the blood, over the tears. Clark whimpered. Bruce caught his mouth and kissed him. Clark couldn’t remember how to kiss, how to partake, so he let Bruce claim him, take him, his mouth hard and implacable under Clark’s yielding lips. Clark shuddered when Bruce’s free hand grazed over his abused erection, the touch so different from the sole of his shoe, the fingers searching and pressing down, ever moving, ever teasing. He wasn’t gentle, not at all, but it was a different kind of roughness, the press of fingers, the force of his palm.

‘You could come for me like this, couldn’t you?’ Bruce murmured and bit down on Clark’s lower lip. ‘You filthy slut.’

Clark keened in protest, because he _should_ protest to that, because that shouldn’t taste so good on Bruce’s lips, though it did, fuck, it did.

Bruce removed his hand and slapped Clark instead. The fire building in the back of Clark’s head was reduced to embers.

‘You’ll come when I tell you to.’

Bruce’s backhand stung, yet Clark leaned into the touch, seeking it, yearning it. The strike was an indulgence, an absolution. Clark let his face fall with each blow, the pain budding and blossoming. Bruce’s gloved fingertips pressed into his stings and bruises. The sensation running through his body was electric, Bruce’s touch unforgiving.

‘Alright baby, toughen up. We’ve barely gotten started.’

Bruce curled his left hand around Clark’s jaw, holding his face up to the light. From his pocket, he pulled out what looked like a tube of lipstick. He opened it with his mouth and slotted the top under his pinkie and ring finger. Once Bruce had opened the tube, Clark realised it wasn’t actually not lipstick, not _really_ lipstick. Synthetic kryptonite had a smell: acrid, chemical, manmade. Tonight, it smelled wanton and vicious. He tried to get away, twisting his head this way and that to get out of Bruce’s grip, but with the kryptonite rock only feet away and the synthetic kryptonite so close to his face and with Bruce’s fingers like a vice, all he got was the rush of Bruce’s touch turning into bruises. Bruce applied the kryptonite lipstick carefully, slowly, taking his time to line Clark’s lips. 

Soon, Clark was numb, boneless and floating, his head only upright because of Bruce’s fingers on him. There was something he was supposed to do. Fight? Protest? His mind was hazy and he couldn’t remember. Bruce must have put down the lipstick because now both hands were on him, two fingers pressing his lips open and pushing inside. With his fingers pressed against Clark’s palate, he lifted his head.

‘Bite down.’ Bruce commanded and Clark tried to obey, tried to get his jaw to work with his heedless mind. ‘Come on, you can do harder than that.’ 

Clark tried and tried again, but he couldn’t bite, couldn’t manage anything more than curl his tongue around Bruce’s fingers. The leather tasted bitter and he wanted more. He loved Bruce’s hands; he loved the way his fingers felt in his mouth; he loved him. He wanted to please him, pleasure him, kneel for him, be for him.

‘Beautiful.’ Bruce leaned closer, his breath loud in Clark’s ear, his voice changing from commanding to concerned. ‘Still okay?’

‘More,’ Clark said – tried to say. His mouth didn’t work right and the words came out slurred.

‘Are you sure?’

Clark wished Bruce wouldn’t ask. Clark wished he’d take and take, go as far as he wanted and then further. Clark wanted him to wreck him, split him open and break him apart. He could take it. He wanted to take it. Clark lolled his head against Bruce’s shoulder – and he smelled so good, danger and earth and arousal – and attempted a nod.

‘More.’ He licked his lips. He’d forgotten the bites, the cuts, and he tasted his blood, savoured the taste of his own mortality. ‘Worse. Please.’

‘I’m going to stop if I think you’re endangering yourself.’ Bruce whispered, kissing his ear.

‘Fuck you.’ Clark couldn’t form his lips around the _k_ , the words coming out as a drooling _fu’ you_.

‘God, Clark, I love you.’ Bruce kissed his temple and pulled back.

Bruce’s hand around his throat was a balm, a blessing. There was nothing but the leather glove pressed into his now-so-vulnerable skin: the rush of almost blacking out, of his eyes rolling back in his skull, of Bruce Bruce Bruce. He didn’t have the breath to make a sound when he tasted Bruce’s gloved fingers again. They trailed down his tongue, pushing deep and further still. He didn’t expect the sudden nausea, the reflexive spasm when the fingers reached too far. Clark was gagging and coughing when Bruce pulled away again.

It was a struggle to right his head, to lean back enough to watch Bruce, back on his feet. The world was hazy, every light casting haloes, and Clark watched in slack-jawed wonder as Bruce undid his zipper, as Bruce released his erection, glove-clad finger and thumb barely wrapped around himself. He was glistening already and Clark felt proud, pleased, happy that it was because of him, that it was for him.

Bruce studied Clark for several moments, running his fingers along his length, lazily, considering, before he reached down to pick up the kryptonite lipstick again. Clark watched him open his hand and paint several messy crosses on his gloved palm. Clark wanted to reach out, to touch, but the chains kept him in place. He found it hard to move. His shoulders ached, pleasant and dull; his throat felt scratched and used. If he tried to speak, he knew it’d come out warbled. Satisfied with his work, Bruce replaced the top of the lipstick and put it in his pocket, touching himself with the kryptonite-covered palm. Wetter still now, the sheen of the kryptonite glistening in the half-light. Clark made a sound, pathetic and mewling.

‘Jesus.’

The word from Bruce seemed unintended, not in the low calm tone he’d been employing all this time, but Bruce’s regular baritone drawl. Clark convinced himself to tip his head back to look at Bruce’s face, his beautiful face, his beautiful eyes, dark like the undiscovered oceans. (Clark had discovered these oceans, but he would never tell what he found. That was for him alone.) Bruce seemed to hesitate again, but he took a step forward and gripped Clark by the hair, by his shirt, and pulled him up. Clark had been sprawling, but Bruce wanted him in order, obedient. (Because if he didn’t, then– that’d be bad and that’d be good.) Clark let himself be maneuvered, Bruce’s shoes kicking him into place. He sank Clark back down, now kneeling before Bruce. Bruce moved his hands to grip his chin and gently stroke his hair.

‘My perfect ragdoll. What fun I’ll have with you.’

Bruce rubbed his thumb over Clark’s mouth and Clark opened up, welcoming Bruce’s touch, tasting the kryptonite on his thumb, wicked and sinful and intoxicating. Bruce hooked his thumb on Clark’s lower left canine and pressed down. He kept his finger in Clark’s mouth as he dragged his cock along Clark’s cheek, streaking kryptonite and precum. Clark tried to turn his head, tried to lean in, but Bruce kept his face in place, teasing over Clark’s mouth, between Clark’s lips, just enough so Clark could taste the fire and ice of the kryptonite, heady and dangerous and beneath it, the hint of Bruce. He wanted to lean in, wanted more, but Bruce curled a hand in his hair and held him there, waiting. It was difficult to focus enough to look up, but worth it: for the way Bruce’s eyes had grown black; for the way his breathing had grown erratic; for the way he looked at Clark, amazed and overcome. Clark smiled, his lips stretched under Bruce’s thumb, over Bruce’s erection. He had done this. This was for him.

Slowly, slowly, Bruce began to move. A silken slide over Clark’s tongue, a little further every time, not quite deep enough. The kryptonite coated his tongue, his gums, the roof of his mouth, pulling him under. Ragdoll, Bruce had said, and Clark liked that, liked the idea of – being picked up, played with. No matter if he was hurt. No matter what he wanted. Bruce drifted over the base of his tongue and further, deeper, and it was like Bruce’s hand wrapped around his throat again, the realisation that he needed air, that he couldn’t breathe, that he couldn’t escape. As Bruce pulled Clark’s head to make him swallow those last few inches, Clark felt Bruce’s belt buckle dig against his nose, scratching his skin. The metal turned from cold to lukewarm as Bruce held him in place, and with each lingering second Clark felt more and more how raw his throat was, how he could feel his knees on the cave floor but he felt like he was floating, how he was caught and he had no way to escape. At some point Bruce had removed his thumb and now stroked his cheek and jaw, murmuring words of encouragement. 

‘Just a little longer; you’re doing so good. No, no, don’t start fighting. You can do it, a little more, no – _don’t_.’

Clark hadn’t wanted to let Bruce down, didn’t want him to use that disappointed voice, but he couldn’t breathe and and he couldn’t think and he didn’t mean to fight, didn’t mean to try to pull his head back against Bruce’s unflinching hand, but he couldn’t help it. There was another kind of thrill in disobedience and Clark sought the thrill, sought the punishment. He wasn’t making a decision. He was instinct. He was id. When Bruce pulled out – the sound wet and lewd and loud in the silence of the cave – Clark gasped and gagged and swallowed, not sure if he remembered how to breathe. 

‘It would’ve been easier if you hadn’t fought, pet. Now it’s going to hurt.’

Clark tried to focus his hazy-eyed vision and look up at Bruce, shadows and beauty, awaiting his punishment. He deserved it. He wanted it. Bruce tapped his cheek with two fingers, not quite hard enough to be a slap, not quite gentle enough to be a caress. 

Bruce hadn’t lied. It hurt, deep and unforgiving. It couldn’t be worse; it couldn’t be better. The high of the kryptonite meant equal pain and pleasure, and he didn’t know which he chased more. The prong of Bruce’s belt buckle scratched over his skin and he smelled his blood, felt it drip from his nose, tasted it on Bruce. It was wrong, wasn’t it – how much he savoured this loss of control, this loss of agency. He was a doll, an instrument, to be shaped as Bruce considered best, so he could give Bruce what he wanted; so he could give Bruce what no one else could give him. Bruce could break Clark. Clark could put himself back together again.

Bruce’s hands. Bruce’s sounds. Bruce Bruce Bruce, violent and perfect and _Clark’s_ , pulling back and – hand in his hair fingers bruising his jaw – coming coming, white that tasted nothing like white, tasted like kryptonite and acid and sweetness. And Bruce didn’t stop, not for a second, angling Clark’s head and _licking_ , tore his tongue over Clark’s face, Clark’s bruised lips, Clark’s thick tongue, tasting, marking, claiming.

Clark should swallow, Clark wanted to swallow, but his jaw wasn’t working, his throat wouldn’t cooperate. He dragged his tongue against his teeth, white sticking to the back of his teeth, white on his tongue, white on the roof of his mouth. All he was was Bruce’s.

‘I would tell you not to fight back but, fuck, I don’t think you could if you wanted to.’

A sound, the jangle of chains and Clark was falling, falling. Caught by his collar, Clark was dragged and dumped on the ground, face against the concrete, gravel pressing into his cheek, his temple. He had forgotten that his shoulders didn’t always have to hurt, the pain receding to a blissful ache, his muscles roaring in relief even as he hurt. But but but where was Bruce, he couldn’t feel Bruce’s touch; Bruce was supposed to be there, Bruce was supposed not to leave for a second.

‘Shh, shh.’ There he was, running a hand up Clark’s back, stroking his hair. ‘I didn’t go anywhere. I was just taking off my gloves. I’m here, I’m here.’

And yes yes, there he was, his fingers as gentle and coarse as always over Clark’s skin. He was touching Clark like he was a spooked animal, a scared pet. And that – that was right, wasn’t it? Clark was Bruce’s and he was a pet and he wanted to be the best pet, irreplaceable and comforting and everything Bruce wanted, Bruce needed, Bruce yearned for. 

Bruce took his time: his fingers pressing into Clark’s skin, massaging, bruising; his weight straddling Clark’s hips, and Clark wanted to buck his hips, wanted to be closer, but he didn’t know how, didn’t know how to move; his hand closing around Clark’s throat again and his teeth biting down on Clark’s ear, on that spot under Clark’s jaw that he always liked to kiss. Clark mewled and whined and wanted to be closer, wanted Bruce to keep taking, keep giving. Clark was overcome. Clark was overtaken. 

A tug on Clark’s shirt, first one hand on his collar and then two, yanking, pulling. The fabric tore with a sigh, and Clark remembered, cherished, that Bruce could tear him apart, too, pick him open and… One button tore, then two, and Bruce’s knuckles burned over Clark’s aching shoulders as he dragged the shirt down over them, down his upper arms, pinning his arms along his sides. Bruce was so clever; Bruce was always so clever. Bruce moved and Clark missed the weight of him, the heft, the comfort.

‘Good boy.’ Bruce kissed his cheek, lapped his tongue over his bruises before he pulled back.

Next, his legs. Bruce worked a hand under Clark’s shirt and pressed it against Clark’s bare stomach, lifting his hips. He pushed him to his knees, first one leg, then the other. Bruce kept his palms pressed against the back of Clark’s knees, as though he wasn’t sure that Clark could stay up without it. No no no, Clark was good, Clark would manage whatever Bruce wanted. The gravel dug into his face, his bare shoulders. He still couldn’t swallow, and he licked his teeth again, tasting Bruce Bruce Bruce. He wanted to make him proud, and he didn’t fall.

Clark gasped at Bruce’s fingers on his stomach again, his fingers cold against his burning skin, his fingers long and perfect and working his jeans open, one button, then another, another. He was so close to touching Clark, like he had before, with his beautiful shoe and his cruel hand, and Clark almost toppled over with the unexpected force with which he bucked against the touch. Bruce caught him, but the smack on his hip was the only punishment. Bruce was kind, Bruce was tugging and tearing at his jeans, bringing them over his hips, dragging them down to his knees. 

The cave was cold and Clark was burning up, too hard and too wet and god he wanted to be touched, wanted Bruce’s fingers on him. And yes, yes, Bruce was touching him, but his hips, his back, his thighs, and kissing him down his spine, one kiss for each exposed vertebrae, down down down and–

Clark keened.

Bruce smiled, and Clark felt the smile, the lips spreading over sensitive skin, the tongue flicking out for a first time, a first taste, a first lick. Clark didn’t have the mind, didn’t have the focus, to do anything but whimper again, not even buck his hips, not even try to push closer. Bruce had one arm wrapped around Clark’s legs, keeping him in place, one hand pressing between his shoulder blades, holding him down.

Clark couldn’t remember, couldn’t think, but – they’d never done this, had they? Bruce had never bent his head like that, worked his clever tongue deeper and deeper, impossibly deep and impossibly good, wet and depraved and and and. Bruce’s mouth was warm and he moved so slowly, so leisurely, like this was nothing at all, like Clark’s every nerve wasn’t on fire, like he couldn’t feel this in his fingertips, his toes, burning burning down his thighs and in his stomach and – oh, _oh_ – why hadn’t they done this, why hadn’t Bruce pinned him down and done this the very first time. Bruce exhaled a laugh and his breath was like kryptonite, making Clark weak, pliant, needing. He blinked and tried to focus his eyes, tried to see anything, but, oh, what was there to see when there was so much to feel, too much to feel. Clark’s mouth was wet, not with spit but with Bruce, but that felt right, that was good, because he could taste Bruce and Bruce could taste Clark, Bruce was tasting him like no one ever had, slick slick slick and oh oh _oh_.

If he focused, if only he could focus, he knew he could climax from this, from Bruce’s hands holding him in place, from Bruce’s mouth on him, but but – he couldn’t focus and if Bruce wanted him to come, Bruce would have told him to, would have told him it was okay, and Bruce hadn’t said anything about that, Bruce just licked and lapped and delved, and Clark didn’t want to disappoint him, didn’t want to let him down, and he couldn’t focus, couldn’t think of himself in any concentrated way, ever distracted by Bruce, ever wanting to be good for Bruce. Clark could hear himself beg, not with words, but hungry desperate sounds, urging Bruce on, thanking Bruce, begging for more, more, more. 

When Bruce pulled back, when the cold of the cave was upon him and the ghost of Bruce’s tongue burned on him, Clark whined and protested and tried to move his head, tried to look up at Bruce. (He wanted to see his face, slick with spit, the satisfied sneer on his face, the depths of his gaze.) But, no – Bruce’s hand was splayed over his face, over his jaw, pinning him in place. The crushed rock ground against his skin, a satisfying piercing pain.

‘Kitten’ – yes, yes, Clark was his kitten, his pet, there to comfort him, here to be there for him – ‘you wanted that, didn’t you?’ Bruce’s voice was deeper than the deepest ocean, more precious than the rarest stone, and Clark moaned, mewled, whined. ‘I could do that for hours, you know. Hear you cry. Feel you shiver. So wet for me, dripping and needy. Too weak to move, to protest, just… there for me to take, to use. And you like that. You want that. Isn’t that right, kitten?’

Clark couldn’t nod, not with Bruce’s hand like that, but he tried, tried to shake his head in agreement, tried to make approving noises. Bruce was touching him, his free hand charting his thigh, swirling up and down the inside of his thighs, so close, so good, tracing the muscles in his cheeks, wide circles that grew smaller and smaller until – oh, Bruce’s fingertips against his hole, so wet from his tongue, and oh oh _oh_ , so easily he breached him, so easily he slid two fingers down to the top knuckle, the middle knuckle.

He stayed there for a moment, two, before he started moving, pushing in and pulling out and curling his fingers, prodding, searching. Soon, the pace was relentless and he reached deeper, down to the last knuckle, and Clark whined in pain, in pleasure and Bruce curved his fingers again, just right, against that perfect perfect spot. Clark spasmed under Bruce’s fingers, under Bruce’s hands. Bruce laughed, and if Clark had been a king, he would have given up his kingdom for that laugh. The thought was hazy, unformed as Bruce hit the spot again and again, one of his legs pressed against Clark’s to keep him on his knees, to keep him from toppling over. Bruce’s fingers were cruel, relentless, and he rocked Clark’s body with each thrust, Clark’s cheek and temple and shoulder chafed raw against the floor, his skin bruised under Bruce’s hand.

Clark was whimpering, drooling, begging. He was on fire, he had to be on fire, with the burning behind his eyes and in his gut and in the tips of his toes, his fingers, with a need that felt dangerous, meteoric, growing, growing, growing.

‘Touch yourself.’

Bruce’s voice felt like velvet and silk against his ear, and Clark’s eyes drifted shut, happy at the sound, before he realised what Bruce had said, what Bruce had ordered.

It was difficult, more difficult than it should be, but after seconds or minutes or hours, Clark wrenched his arm free, the shirt tearing but that didn’t matter, none of that mattered, and, oh, had he ever felt like this, had he ever been so slicked, had the barest brush of his fingers ever felt so much. He didn’t have the focus, didn’t have the mind to curl his fingers, to move his fist, so he flattened his palm, his stomach already sticky, and let Bruce’s thrusts move him against his hand, pull him along, pull him closer.

‘Now.’

The hand on Clark’s face was gone and Bruce’s hand was on Clark’s, guiding him, helping him, tipping him over the edge. Clark didn’t know when, but his eyes were squeezed shut, and he saw stars, fireworks, the birth of the universe, the shearing light of planets disintegrating, and he was coming, helpless and overcome.


	2. aftercare

Clark collapsed, boneless and spent. He felt Bruce’s hands on him, turning him over, one hand under his knees, another around his shoulders. Bruce was carrying him – like a child, like a bride. _Where where where_ , his addled mind asked, and the answer was: somewhere soft, on something that almost kept him upright. Bruce kissed his forehead, brushing over his scrapes with dry lips, and Clark leaned into the touch.

‘Clark, I’m going to close the box, okay? You’ll feel clearer when I do.’

He was gone, and then he was back, and the haze receded, just a little, and Bruce was touching him, kissing him, brushing his fingers through his hair and trailing kissed all along his forehead. Clark wanted to pull him nearer, closer, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate, his arms were still so heavy.

‘How are you feeling?’

Clark made a sound, and he meant it as a good sound, a happy, _contented_ sound, but it sounded ravaged, scratched, endangered. Bruce kissed him again, on his knees for him, working off one leg of his jeans, then the other. The cave was cold against his knees. Then he wasn’t cold, not cold at all, not when Bruce wrapped the – blanket? robe? something thick and fluffy and more luxurious than he had ever imagined anything could be growing up – around him, and Clark sighed, Clark smiled.

‘Maybe don’t try to talk for a few moments, love.’ Bruce had pulled a stool closer to where he sat – it was a chair, he realised, it was _the chair_ – and the stool legs screeched _skrzzzzzzzsh_ against the floor. ‘I’m going to clean your face. I’m going to touch your face, okay? First off’ – Bruce’s fingertips combed over the side of his face, brushing the small pieces of grits away – ‘I’m getting the last of the stone out of your face, then I’ll wash it properly. The water should still be warm, but tell me if it’s too hot.’

Bruce touched Clark’s knee over the robe – yes, it was a robe, even though his arms weren’t were they should be – and kept working, gentle fingers working slowly, pausing every few moments to kiss Clark again, to murmure that he loved him, to tell him how wonderful he was. _Bruce_ was wonderful, and if _he_ thought that Clark was wonderful, then maybe he was wonderful, maybe he was alright. The gravel gone, Bruce moved the wet cloth – the water perfect, perfect like Bruce – over his face, brushing over the bruises that were still dark, the bites that still stung, cleaning off dirt and soothing the hurt. After Bruce had moved the cloth over his eyes a second time, Clark opened one eye, then another.

Oh. Clark looked at Bruce, and how could anyone believe that evil could win when Bruce existed, when Bruce was real? Bruce noticed Clark’s stare and smiled, the small smile that Clark wished he could bottle so he could always feel the way that smile made him feel: safe, secure, home. Clark looked at Bruce and Bruce looked at Clark and Clark could look at Bruce forever. Bruce leaned in to touch his forehead against Clark’s, brush his lips over Clark’s jaw, and Clark wanted to lean in too, to touch, but, oh, moving was hard. Bruce caught him when he toppled over, half-laughing with surprise and effort, holding him by his upper arms, stroking Clark’s biceps through the robe. Bruce changed his grip, let Clark move closer, and held him there, one arm wrapped around him. Clark burrowed his nose against Bruce’s throat. He smelled like velvet. He smelled like lavender. He smelled like the calm of a crackling fire after hours in the snow.

‘I love you.’ Bruce murmured against Clark’s hair and Clark tried to say it too, his throat not working, so he nuzzled his nose against Bruce’s neck and stayed there. ‘Are you up for some water? I think it’ll help your throat. I’ve also got some milk and honey for you. Sprinkle of nutmeg.’

Clark nodded and Bruce tipped him back in the chair, and maybe Clark blinked, or maybe time was out of joint, but there was a glass at his lips and Bruce’s fingertips tipped his chin, encouraging him to take small small sips of water.

‘Milk, please.’ He slurred the words, his throat still scratchy and thick, and it felt – strange to ask Bruce for something. He just wanted to give things to Bruce. Anything for Bruce.

The headrest was firm against the back of his head, and he felt himself slipping, his neck unable to hold the weight of his head, and there Bruce was again, as always, catching him and touching him, almost smiling. Before Bruce raised the mug to Clark’s mouth, he put his little finger in the milk and Clark’s heart felt big, too big, that Bruce would check the temperature to make sure it wasn’t too hot, like Clark was a child, like Clark could be hurt. And it was just perfect, warm but not too warm, sweet but not too sweet, the spice lending a depth that tasted like how Buce kissed him. Like the way Bruce blinked himself awake in the morning.

Bruce held the mug for him and, when Clark murmured another request, the water. When he finished the water, Bruce kissed his forehead. When he finished the milk, Bruce kissed his mouth. Clark fell, and Bruce caught him. Bruce held him, his fingers carding through his hair, his lips moving over Clark’s hair, temple, eyebrows, nose.

‘Are you feeling ready to go upstairs? I’ll carry you.’

A hand under his knees, another under his shoulders. Bruce grunted when he lifted him, and Clark wanted to apologise for being heavy, for being so _big_ , but Bruce held him close and carried him up the stairs, each step a dip and then a rise, and through the house. Clark nuzzled his face against Bruce’s shoulder. It was nice being carried. It was nice being carried like this. Bruce smelled of salt and cedar. He felt like home. 

When Clark opened his eyes again, he found himself in Bruce’s en suite, its glistening porcelain and golden lights harsh compared to the darkness of the cave. He blinked, trying to get used to the brightness. It was a light unlike the sun, and he yearned for the sun, for its rays to kiss him. But not even the sun could kiss him like Bruce could, and he wanted that even more right now. Bruce was in front of him, close enough to kiss, but he wasn’t kissing Clark, he was touching him, touching his face, and there was a groove between Bruce’s eyebrows, and Clark wanted to lick away the concern on his face.

‘I would’ve thought your bruises would have started going down now.’ Bruce’s fingers were tender and Clark chased their touch, pressing his cheek against them. ‘Clark, how are you feeling? Clark, talk to me.’

‘Woozy.’

Clark let his head fall back. Bruce caught him at once, keeping his head in place, strong and steady. God, he loved him. He felt safe and happy. He let his eyes drift close.

‘Clark, open your mouth.’

Bruce’s fingers felt so good in his mouth, so right, even as he ran his fingertips along his palate, his teeth, the inside of his cheek. Clark closed his lips and flicked his tongue.

‘No, Clark, don’t do that. Open back up.’

Clark opened his eyes to watch Bruce, but the world was so bright and the bathroom lights glared. Bruce rubbed his fingers together, frowning. Then he was wiping his hands on a towel and scooped Clark up again. Clark hummed happily. Bruce was so strong and his hands were so good under his thighs, on his back. Clark nuzzled closer. He couldn’t seem to figure out how to wrap his arms around Bruce but Bruce held him so well, so wonderfully. Clark laughed when Bruce dropped him on the bed, pulling at Bruce’s lapels, wanting him close. He wanted to be good to Bruce, kind to Bruce. Like Bruce was kind to him. Good to him.

‘Clark, love, you still have some synthetic kryptonite in your mouth. We need to get it out. I’m going to brush your teeth, but lie here for now. I just need to get your toothbrush and something for you to spit in, okay?’ Bruce kissed him, his mouth and the tip of his nose, and Clark laughed again. ‘I love you and I will be back in a second, okay?’

Then Bruce was gone and Clark whined, because Bruce shouldn’t be gone, Bruce should be _here_. Then he was back again, and Clark reached out to touch him, to hold him, to be with him. 

‘Love, can you sit up for me. Yes, just like that, thank you.’ Bruce’s fingers were warm on Clark’s neck, angling his head up. Clark smiled at Bruce. ‘Right, I’m going to brush your teeth. Open up your mouth.’

Clark let his mouth hang open and watched Bruce’s face. He looked concerned. Clark didn’t know when he had learned how to read Bruce, when he had figured out that that slight tightness in his eye was worry, not anger. Bruce started with Clark’s back molar, the toothbrush prickly on his teeth. Bruce’s toothpaste tasted like no toothpaste Clark had ever tasted. It was tangerine, lemon, rose. Bruce brushed his teeth methodically, moving from one section to another, taking his time with each tooth, brushing his gums and his tongue. Clark giggled when he brushed over his palate, the sensation almost a tickle. As he brushed, Clark started feeling – not better, because the wooziness had been _nice_ , but clearer, more awake. His eyes felt less droopy and his mind was less distracted.

‘Spit.’ Bruce held out a bowl and Clark spat once and then again. The taste of citrus, smooth and bright, stayed in his mouth. Bruce held up a small glass. ‘Mouthwash.’

Clark accepted the glass and poured the mouthwash into his mouth, sloshing it from one side to another, gurgling it through his teeth. The mouthwash was scented with rose, floral and soft. Bruce still held the bowl in front of him and Clark spat again.

‘How are you feeling?’ Bruce’s fingers were soft on Clark’s cheek, stroking over the bruises he’d left. He kissed Clark’s temple, gently, gently.

‘I’m good.’ Clark tilted his head and angled his lips towards Bruce. Bruce kissed him. ‘That was good.’

‘Yeah?’ Bruce smiled. ‘Let’s talk more about that later – I still need to take care of you. I’m going to run a bath. Do you feel good to walk or do you want me to carry you?’

Clark rested his head on Bruce’s shoulder.

‘I can walk. But let’s stay here a little bit.’

Bruce kissed his ear and pressed a hand against Clark’s neck. He played with his hair, brushing his fingers through Clark’s curls, slowly moving up and down his neck. It wasn’t really an embrace, with Bruce still holding the bowl in one hand, but Clark inhaled Bruce’s smell, grounding himself with it. Finally, he pulled back.

‘Bath time,’ he proclaimed.

Clark sat on the sink and watched as Bruce rummaged in the drawers for the right bubble bath and turned the tap on, testing the temperature with his fingers before he plugged the bath and poured in the bubble bath. Clark turned his head and studied himself in the mirror. The bruises were going down, Bruce’s fingerprints on his jaw faded into almost nothing, the imprint of his bite scabbed over and slowly receding. The marks from the gravel had all but disappeared. His lips were still a little swollen, the bites not quite healed. Clark prodded at one of the bites in his lip with his tongue and the spark of pain was delightful. He hummed, happy.

‘Come on, Clark, in you go.’

Bruce wrapped an arm around his waist, kissing him three times, each kiss slow and affectionate, and eased him off the sink, pulling him with him to the large claw-foot bath. The water was hot, steam rising from beneath the large bubbles, and Clark sighed. Sitting down, the water barely reached his hips, and Bruce let it keep running when he, too, stepped into the bath, raising the water level significantly. The bath was deep and the water had reached more than half-way up his chest by the time Bruce turned the faucet off.

‘Is the temperature okay?’ Bruce’s submerged hand found Clark’s ankle and he wrapped his fingers around it, squeezing gently.

‘It’s lovely.’ It was warm enough that Clark felt it in his toes, that heat that was just almost too much. He wondered if it bothered Bruce.

‘Will you turn around for me? Let me hold you.’

‘I’m not loopy anymore, you know.’

Still, Clark turned around and leaned back, his back against Bruce’s chest, his head on Bruce’s shoulder, Bruce’s legs on either side of his. Bruce’s arms were wrapped around his chest. 

‘I know, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop taking care of you. I – are you sure I didn’t go too far? There were some things we hadn’t quite explicitly discussed.’ 

Clark could just reach Bruce’s jaw if he tilted his head, so he kissed his way along his jaw, his hands folded over Bruce’s.

‘Like the floor thing?’ Clark asked, and Bruce hummed. ‘And the, uh–’

‘Ass eating?’ Clark could _hear_ Bruce’s grin.

‘For what it’s worth, I _very_ much liked both of those. You pinning me down and having your way with me was kind of the point, y’know.’ Clark felt Bruce’s lips against his hair. ‘It was good. Was it good for you?’

‘Mm, very good.’

‘Any favourite bits?’

Bruce seemed to consider the question, stroking a hand up Clark’s arm, fingers warm and wet over his collarbones.

‘I liked choking you. I liked– how pliant you were. Needy.’ Another kiss on Clark’s temple. ‘And I very much liked eating you out.’

‘Why haven’t we done that before?’

‘Never thought of it? It’s not really something – I don’t know, it’s not really part of my regular repertoire.’ Bruce held him closer when Clark chuckled. ‘Are you laughing at me, Clark?’

‘Just a little. Have you done it with a lot of people?’ Clark didn’t think about it often, but there was something darkly exciting to think about how many others had passed through Bruce’s bed before, none of them staying like Clark has stayed, none of them mattering, Bruce claimed, like how Clark mattered.

‘A few. Why, you jealous?’

‘Oh, not at all. I was just wondering if there is _anything_ you haven’t done before.’ It would be nice, Clark thought, to have a first with Bruce, a first that was _his_.

‘Tonight was the first time I ignored a _no_ , but I don’t really know if that qualifies, considering you were the one who told me to ignore it.’

It had taken Bruce a while to come around to that idea.

‘I’ll take what I can get.’

‘You want to do something with me I haven’t done with anyone else?’ Bruce’s hand dipped in the water. He stroked his fingers over Clark’s throat, gently, gently. Clark made a sound, a non-committal yes. Bruce shifted, his lips against Clark’s ear. ‘I’ll fist you if you want.’ 

Clark hadn’t ever considered that, never thought of it as something he would want to try. But–

‘Jesus, yes.’

Bruce laughed.

‘God, Clark. Your mild-mannered reporter shtick sure has everyone fooled.’

‘Thank you for putting up with all the terrible things I want to do.’

‘Kitten,’ Bruce said and kissed Clark’s neck, ‘not terrible at all. And _putting up with_ suggests I don’t enjoy it just as much as you do.’

‘Still. Thank you for loving me.’

Bruce moved, his fingers on Clark’s jaw, turning his face so their eyes met.

‘You are very easy to love.’

It was rare for Bruce to be so open, so soft. Clark cherished it.

‘I love you.’

Bruce dipped his head to brush their lips together, and they were kissing, kissing, and it as so easy to slip back down, to yield under Bruce’s touch, to succumb, to let the world fall away and –

‘Are you getting a little distracted, Clark?’ Bruce gave him one more kiss in the corner of his mouth and pulled back. ‘I’m sorry; I got carried away.’

‘I didn’t mind,’ Clark said, and he almost felt drunk on kryptonite again.

‘I was supposed to be taking care of you. Would you like me to wash your hair?’

‘Yes, please.’

Bruce’s fingers were just the right amount of gentle, his short nails scratching Clark’s scalp, working up a thick lather. Clark dipped his head underwater again and Bruce worked the conditioner through his hair. As the conditioner worked, Bruce ran his fingers over Clark’s shoulders, massaging over muscles that had ached earlier, each press of Bruce’s fingertips a balm. After Clark ducked under the water, Bruce combed through his hair, making sure all the product was gone, kissing his hairline.

They stayed in the bath until it had moved from hot to lukewarm. They rinsed off together, the spray of the jets not half as comforting as Bruce’s arm wrapped around his waist, Bruce’s body pressed against his. Bruce dried him off and helped him into a fresh robe. When Bruce had dried himself off as well – and Clark loved watching him, the strength and focus in everything he did – he reached out and took Clark’s hand, interlacing their fingers.

Back in bed, Clark rested his head on Bruce’s chest and listened to his heart. Its beat was familiar, comforting, consistent. Bruce stroked his fingers over Clark’s back, kissing his forehead, holding him close. Clark could stay there forever.

‘Do you want me to help clean up in the cave?’

‘No, I can handle it.’ Bruce placed a hand on Clark’s neck, brushing over the skin before tipping Clark’s face up. ‘Do you want me to go down while you’re awake, or wait until after you’ve fallen asleep?’

‘While I’m awake, please. If I wake up and you’re gone, I’ll worry.’

‘I’ll go down later. Tell me when you feel ready to be alone for a little while. It shouldn’t take me more than ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. I need to secure the kryptonite.’ Bruce pushed a curl out of Clark’s forehead. ‘I won’t be gone long.’

‘That’s fine. Stay here a while.’

‘As long as you want, Clark. As long as you need. I’m here for you.’

‘Forever?’ Clark asked, not realising the weight of the question until it had passed his lips.

Bruce didn’t tense, pause, or shy away. He pulled Clark closer and laughed, breathless. He kissed his hair again.

‘Forever.’

Clark hummed and pressed his forehead against the underside of Bruce’s jaw, feeling his pulse shimmer under his skin, hearing the steady, comforting beat of his heart. He was safe. Secure. Home.


End file.
